it was not an easy problem that mrs. norman faced. she wished to save wilkinson; she also wished to save the character of her fridays, which wilkinson's wife had already done her best to destroy. mrs. norman could not think why the woman came, since she didn't enjoy herself, since she was impenetrable to the intimate, peculiar charm. you could only suppose that her object was to prevent its penetrating wilkinson, to keep the other women off. her eyes never left him. [pg 86]

it was all very well for evey to talk. she might, of course, have been wiser in the beginning. she might have confined the creature to their big monthly crushes, where, as evey had suggested, she would easily have been mislaid and lost. but so, unfortunately, would wilkinson; and the whole point was how not to lose him.

evey said she was tired of being told off to entertain mrs. wilkinson. she was beginning to be rather disagreeable about it. she said cornelia was getting to care too much about that wilkinson man. she wouldn't have minded playing up to her if she had approved of the game; but mrs. wilkinson was, after all, you know, mr. wilkinson's wife.

mrs. norman cried a little. she told evey she ought to have known it was his spirit that she cared about. but she owned that it wasn't right to sacrifice poor evey. neither, since he had a wife, was it altogether right for her to care about wilkinson's spirit to the exclusion of her other friends.

then, one friday, mrs. norman, relieving her sister for once, made a discovery while evey, who was a fine musician, played. mrs. wilkinson did, after all, take an interest in something; she was accessible to the throbbing of evey's bow across the strings.

she had started; her eyes had turned from wilkinson and fastened on the player. there was a light in them, beautiful and piercing, as if her soul had suddenly been released from some hiding-place in its unlovely house. her face softened, her mouth relaxed, her eyes closed. she lay back in her chair, at peace, withdrawn from them, positively lost.

mrs. norman slipped across the room to the corner where wilkinson sat alone. his face lightened as she came. [pg 87]

"it's extraordinary," he said, "her love of music."

mrs. norman assented. it was extraordinary, if you came to think of it. mrs. wilkinson had no understanding of the art. what did it mean to her? where did it take her? you could see she was transported, presumably to some place of chartered stupidity, of condoned oblivion, where nobody could challenge her right to enter and remain.

"so soothing," said wilkinson, "to the nerves."

mrs. norman smiled at him. she felt that, under cover of the music, his spirit was seeking communion with hers.

he thanked her at parting; the slight hush and mystery of his manner intimated that she had found a way.

"i hope," she said, "you'll come often—often."

"may we? may we?" he seemed to leap at it—as if they hadn't come often enough before!

certainly she had found the way—the way to deliver him, the way to pacify his wife, to remove her gently to her place and keep her there.

the dreadful lady thus creditably disposed of, wilkinson was no longer backward in the courting of his opportunity. he proved punctual to the first minute of the golden hour.

hampstead was immensely interested in his blossoming forth. it found a touching simplicity in the way he lent himself to the sympathetic eye. all the world was at liberty to observe his intimacy with mrs. norman.

it endured for nine weeks. then suddenly, to mrs. norman's bewilderment, it ceased. the wilkinsons left off coming to her friday evenings. they refused her invitations. their behavior was so abrupt and so mysterious that mrs. norman felt that something must [pg 88] have happened to account for it. somebody, she had no doubt, had been talking. she was much annoyed with wilkinson in consequence, and, when she met him accidentally in the high street, her manner conveyed to him her just resentment.

he called in fitzjohn's avenue the next sunday. for the first time he was without his wife.

he was so downcast, and so penitent, and so ashamed of himself that mrs. norman met him halfway with a little rush of affection.

"why have you not been to see us all this time?" she said.

he looked at her unsteadily; his whole manner betrayed an extreme embarrassment.

"i've come," he said, "on purpose to explain. you mustn't think i don't appreciate your kindness, but the fact is my poor wife"—(she knew that woman was at the bottom of it!)—"is no longer—up to it."

"what is the wretch up to, i should like to know?" thought mrs. norman.

he held her with his melancholy, unsteady eyes. he seemed to be endeavoring to approach a subject intimately and yet abstrusely painful.

"she finds the music—just at present—a little too much for her; the vibrations, you know. it's extraordinary how they affect her. she feels them—most unpleasantly—just here." wilkinson laid two delicate fingers on the middle buttons of his waistcoat.

mrs. norman was very kind to him. he was not very expert, poor fellow, in the fabrication of excuses. his look seemed to implore her pardon for the shifts he had been driven to; it appealed to her to help him out, to stand by him in his unspeakable situation.

"i see," she said. [pg 89]

he smiled, in charming gratitude to her for seeing it.

that smile raised the devil in her. why, after all, should she help him out?

"and are you susceptible to music—in the same unpleasant way?"

"me? oh, no—no. i like it; it gives me the very greatest pleasure." he stared at her in bewilderment and distress.

"then why," said mrs. norman sweetly, "if it gives you pleasure, should you cut yourself off from it?"

"my dear mrs. norman, we have to cut ourselves off from a great many things—that give us pleasure. it can't be helped."

she meditated. "would it be any good," she said, "if i were to call on mrs. wilkinson?"

wilkinson looked grave. "it is most kind of you, but—just at present—i think it might be wiser not. she really, you know, isn't very fit."

mrs. norman's silence neither accepted nor rejected the preposterous pretext. wilkinson went on, helping himself out as best he could:

"i can't talk about it; but i thought i ought to let you know. we've just got to give everything up."

she held herself in. a terrible impulse was upon her to tell him straight out that she did not see it; that it was too bad; that there was no reason why she should be called upon to give everything up.

"so, if we don't come," he said, "you'll understand? it's better—it really is better not."

his voice moved her, and her heart cried to him, "poor peter!"

"yes," she said; "i understand."

of course she understood. poor peter! so it had come to that? [pg 90]

"can't you stay for tea?" she said.

"no; i must be going back to her."

he rose. his hand found hers. its slight pressure told her that he gave and took the sadness of renunciation.

that winter mrs. wilkinson fell ill in good earnest, and wilkinson became the prey of a pitiful remorse that kept him a prisoner by his wife's bedside.

he had always been a good man; it was now understood that he avoided mrs. norman because he desired to remain what he had always been.